


Conjectures Upon Improper Attachments Between Magicians

by Verecunda



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Teacher-Student Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 19:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11237268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: A debate over Pevensey proves unusually edifying (though not, it must be allowed, in any thaumaturgical sense).





	Conjectures Upon Improper Attachments Between Magicians

**Author's Note:**

> Potential warnings: contains discussion of teacher/pupil attraction, and slight references to your expected historical bigotries.

Any traveller in foreign parts is well-advised to learn something of the land to which he is bound, to consult the writings of visitors who have gone before him and so acquaint himself with the geography, language, and customs of the place, for the general enrichment of his experience and to prepare him against any adverse circumstance. This holds doubly true for travellers in realms where no Christian has set foot for several centuries, and it was for this reason that Mr Norrell and Mr Strange were at present deep in accounts of Martin Pale’s travels within Faerie. They were, as far as they could discern, somewhere in the much-disputed borderland between the Kingdom of Sighs-unanswered and the Republic of the Thirteen Citadels, and were keen to acquire some knowledge of this singularly doubtful region.1 But to their great frustration, it seemed Pale’s sojourn must have been of a particularly short duration, for even Hickman’s _Life_ had very little to say of the place beyond the fact that it existed. Mr Strange had therefore turned to Pevensey’s _Eighteen Wonders_ , hoping he might find something to supplement Pale’s description, but in this, too, he was thwarted.

“It is unaccountable to me,” he said, scratching the back of his head irritably with his pen, “that although Pevensey’s magic bears great similarities to Pale’s in many respects, she has hardly a word to say on the subject of Faerie.”

Mr Norrell, who had once, for various reasons, quite applauded this reticence on Pevensey’s part, had nothing very much to say to this. Instead he frowned at Strange over his spectacles, and said in long-suffering tones, “Jonathan, I do not understand why you persist in this absurd belief that Pevensey was a woman.”

“And I,” rejoined Strange, “do not understand why _you_ persist in the absurd belief that she was not.”

“All the credible evidence,” said Norrell, laying great stress upon the adjective, “shews quite clearly that Francis Pevensey was a man.”

This was well-trod ground for them both, and although there was not the least possibility of either party swaying the opinion of the other by so much as an inch, there are, as has been often observed, few things a magician enjoys more than arguing. They were both stubborn creatures, besides, and so they took up their respective positions with great enthusiasm.

“Oh, come, sir, what of the Whittlesea correspondence? There are several-” he paused to think of a delicate expression - “anatomical allusions which plainly shew the Pevensey of the letters to have been a woman.”

“The language of those letters is highly allegorical,” said Mr Norrell, in his most dogged, didactic tones, “and it would be foolish to take any of it literally. As for their substance, you know very well, sir, that love - amatory love - is perfectly possible between men. I do not say that Dr Pale was correct in forming such an alliance with his pupil, I do not say that, but such things were not unknown in times past. Take the pæderastical customs of classical Athens, for example. But though I myself-”

Here, suddenly, he broke off with an air of great fluster and fright, and pressed his lips together, as if to prevent the rest of his sentence escaping. Too late. Strange frowned, then, as the implication of the unspoken words sank in, a jolt of shock passed through him, and he snapped his head up, staring.

“Gilbert?”

Norrell’s eyes refused to meet his: instead they darted in every direction, as if he were desperately seeking some quick means of escape from the library. His expression was one of suppressed panic, the way it had often looked in the old days when Strange had caught him out in some lie or evasion.

He stared in earnest now. He had not quite believed his first thought, but Norrell’s reaction was quickly lending weight and shape to it.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that even whilst I was your pupil, you had a fancy for me?”

Norrell opened his mouth, and at first he looked as if he might deny it. Then he looked down, and in a voice so soft that Strange had to strain his ears to hear it, he replied, “Yes. Yes, I did.”

He could not help but ask, “When?”

Without looking up, Norrell said quietly, “From the moment you first performed magic for me.”

Strange sat back, stunned. He had not considered that Norrell had loved him for as long as that. He had presumed that it had been for Norrell as it had been for him: an unlooked-for but happy consequence of their renewed friendship and close association within the Darkness. He had never imagined, in all his time as Mr Norrell’s pupil, that his tutor’s attentions had been any thing out of the ordinary. Now a hundred memories presented themselves to his recollection at once, of Norrell’s admiring looks and enthusiastic praises, and it was as if a veil had been suddenly lifted from his eyes.

“I did not know.” It was all he could say.

“No,” agreed Norrell, “I was quite determined that you should not. I was very much afraid… I was sure you should be disgusted, that you might think I had only agreed to take you as my pupil so I might - that is to say, out of some dishonourable motive.”

He fell silent, miserably embarrassed, but Strange was still struggling to make sense of this revelation. It seemed impossible to believe that whilst he had been at a loss what to make of his secretive little tutor, torn between admiration, irritation, and sheer bewilderment, Norrell had been very quietly falling in love with him. 

In his wonderment, he could only laugh. “Well, Mr Norrell, I must own, I am shocked. Lusting after your own pupil. That is not respectable, sir, not respectable at all!”

This was precisely the wrong thing to say. At once, Norrell seemed to retreat into himself, looking down in a most abject attitude, blinking furiously at the table. Seeing his mistake, Strange quickly leaned over and laid his hand over Norrell’s, stroking lightly with his thumb. This caused him to look up, and Strange met him with a gentle smile.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I meant only to tease.”

“I wish you would not.”

Strange frowned. He was familiar with Norrell’s fretfulness, but this seemed excessive, even for him. “What is the matter?”

Norrell sighed, looking wretched. “It was such a sordid thing, Jonathan.”

“Sordid? Do you consider our present relations sordid?”

“No, of course not,” said Mr Norrell, with some impatience. “But here it is different. Here we are equals. But you were my pupil then. It was such a gross breach of your trust.”

It seemed incredible that of all the things Norrell had kept from him during his education, of all the breaches of trust there had been between them, this should be the one that filled him with such bitter self-reproach. He thought of Norrell struggling with it in silence, one more secret to add to his ever-expanding collection, and felt his breast tighten in sympathy.

“Gilbert,” he said, softly, “feelings alone are nothing to be ashamed of. If you had behaved improperly toward me, that would have been a different matter, but you never did. Of all the complaints I had about you in those days - and I had a few, I do assure you! - that was certainly never one of them.”

Norrell still looked doubtful. “Then you are not angry?”

“Angry!” he echoed, almost laughing. “When have I ever been angry at being admired?”

Perhaps it might have made him uncomfortable, had he known about it at the time. But he was greatly changed since those days, and he could not now say with any great degree of confidence what he would have felt then, especially with regard to a matter so delicate.

His present reaction, however, was in no doubt at all. He was dismayed that Norrell should make himself so wretched over something so innocent, and he could not help a stab of guilt at the notion that he might, unwittingly, have occasioned him even greater heartache than he had realised. But beyond that, he was seized with a deep thrill of fascination. His mind raced with recollections of his apprenticeship, of all the times that he and Norrell must have stood close together, poring over the same book or peering into the same silver basin, of all the times their hands must have accidentally brushed together as they passed books to each other, or held candles or mirrors for one another to work spells upon. Ordinary, commonplace occurrences: he had not given them a second thought at the time, but now they assumed new significance in his mind as he considered how they must have affected Norrell. 

Something Arabella had said, a long time ago, now drifted up from the deepest recesses of his memory: _“It was as if he would eat you up with his eyes.”_ How many times must he have sat in the library in Hanover-square with his nose in a book, perfectly oblivious to Norrell looking at him like that - _wanting_ him? His pulse gave a swift, answering leap.

“No,” he said, “I am not angry in the least.” Resisting (for the present) the urge to lean over and kiss Norrell senseless, he let his smile quirk into something altogether more wicked. “I am, however, rather keen to know more.”

Norrell started. “More?”

“Oh, indeed! You have told me only the very barest facts. It would be cruel, sir, quite cruel to keep from me the finer details, especially as they pertain directly to myself.”

A deep flush came into Norrell’s face, and he wrung his hands. “I cannot.”

“Tell me.” Even he was surprized by how rough his voice sounded: there could be no mistaking it for anything but desire. Norrell heard it: he was still hesitant, but when he raised his eyes again, Strange saw that they had grown very dark in response. In the same tone he urged, “Please.”

Norrell was silent for a second or two, as if weighing his embarrassment against his desire; then, with a palpable sense of relief, he yielded. In a low voice, he said, “I thought it was simply the magic at first. Seeing you perform that first spell… I had not felt such joy since my youth, when I first did magic of my own. I did not understand, at first. It was only as your education progressed that I came to realise it was not just the magic: it was you. You _were_ English magic, Jonathan, you and it were bound up together. I wanted… oh, I wanted all of it. I wanted _you_. I could not bear to be apart from you.”

“So I recall,” said Strange drily. It had been most vexing, unable to be out of Norrell’s sight for more than fifteen minutes without Childermass or Drawlight appearing to fetch him back. But he would not have admitted that now for all the worlds that ever were.

Norrell still looked embarrassed, but he seemed encouraged by Strange’s response, and went on, “I loved so much to look at you.” The reserve in his face melted into a soft, retrospective smile. “Your expression when you were reading, or casting a spell - always so intent - you were wonderful to see. I - oh, Jonathan, I used to think such things…”

His voice fell to a whisper, hushed with suppressed tension and emotion, and it was all Strange could do to ask, hoarsely, “What things?” 

He half-feared that this would be where Norrell reached his limit and retreated. But in the same hushed voice, he replied, “I would imagine what it must be like to-” he swallowed - “to touch you.”

“Good God.” It seemed impossible that such a simple confession should have such power, but Strange found himself compelled to close his eyes against a flood of desire that threatened to do for him then and there.

Norrell’s breath was now coming as swiftly as his own, his eyes half-closed as he contemplated his old reveries. “I would imagine myself touching your face: the shape of your brows, maybe, your nose, or even your mouth.” He gave a shy smile. “Or your hair, of course. I longed to take it between my fingers and know how soft it was.”

Indeed, Norrell had regularly done all of these things since they had entered into their present _affaire_. But as Strange listened, he could almost believe he was hearing of it for the very first time. The shadows pressed thickly in upon them, but the candles involved them in a close, warm circle of light, and the fire crackled comfortably in the hearth, throwing swathes of light over their scattered books and papers. It was increasingly easy to forget that this was the Darkness of a fairy curse, and not that of a natural midnight, increasingly easy to forget that they were entrapped within a Pillar of Eternal Night and situated in some far-flung corner of Faerie, and not, in fact, sitting in Mr Norrell’s London library late at night, with all their official visitors gone at last and Hanover-square silent outside.

“And I loved your hands most of all,” said Norrell. “Sometimes, when you were reading, or when you fell asleep, I would imagine what might happen if I just reached out…”

He stared at Strange’s hand, now resting on the table, his expression one of combined longing and anguish, as if it really were something forbidden to him, not something he took hold of several times every day. He seemed rather to have forgotten where - and when - he was. Seeing this, Strange said softly, “Go on, sir.”

Mr Norrell hesitated, then, haltingly, laid his hand over Strange’s. His palm, warm and soft, settled as it always did, a most familiar touch, but he wore such an expression of wonder, as if this truly was the first time he had done such a thing. Slowly, he caressed Strange’s hand, his blunt-tipped fingers following the lines of the fine bones just beneath the skin, before running back up to slip between Strange’s own.

“I would look up now, I dare say,” murmured Strange.

Norrell nodded. Very deliberately, Strange raised his eyes and fixed him with his most direct look, hoping that all his desire shewed plainly in his eyes. He held Norrell’s gaze for a second or two in this fashion, then let his gaze flicker to his mouth. Norrell’s hand tightened over his.

Strange smiled. “Now, I imagine there would be a kiss of some sort here.”

“Yes,” breathed Norrell. “Oh, yes.”

“And who would begin the proceedings, might I ask?”

Norrell’s voice was barely a breath. “It was rather subject to change.”

“Ah. Well, then, what about now, as we are? Whom do you consider would move first now?”

“I believe…” His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “I believe it would be you, Jonathan.”

Strange needed no more encouragement. “Then, if you will permit me…”

So saying, he reached out with his free hand, drew Mr Norrell’s spectacles off, and laid them upon the table. That done, he took Norrell’s chin gently between his fingers, lifting it just so, and laid a soft, smiling kiss to his mouth. Norrell’s lips parted instantly beneath his, and he gave a little gasp that Strange felt more than he heard, as if this truly was the first kiss they were sharing, a secret, not entirely proper thing between master and pupil. The spark between them flared bright, and Strange could restrain himself no longer. In a moment he was on his feet, hauling Norrell up with him, enfolding him in his arms and pulling him up almost upon tiptoes. Without the least regard for ceremony, he dispensed with Norrell’s wig and let it join his spectacles upon the table, leaving him at liberty to sweep his fingers through the short curls beneath and clasp Norrell’s face close in both hands. He kissed him hard, hungry, devouring, delighting in the heat and taste of him, the familiarity with which Norrell’s lips pressed and yielded against his. Norrell, meanwhile, clung to Strange as if to a lifeline, wrapping his arms tight about him and twisting his fingers in the back of his waistcoat.

When at last they broke apart, gasping, Strange could feel Norrell trembling against him. Pulling him close again, he said, “I trust these fancies of yours did not end here.”

Norrell’s eyes widened, and he shook his head most emphatically. “Oh - no! No, I could not… not when you where there in front of me. It would have been too great a liberty.”

“Oh?” Strange grinned, and putting his mouth against Norrell’s ear, murmured, “But what about when I was not there? What did you think of at night, when I had gone, and you were alone with only the thought of me for company?”

Norrell gasped, “Jonathan!” but it had not the sound of a protest; indeed, it had very much the sound of a plea. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded, his cheeks full of colour, and Strange smiled to look at him. His blood was running hotter with every moment, and it mingled with a sweet rush of affection. Soothingly, he stroked Norrell’s hair.

“Only thoughts, Gilbert. There is no shame between us.”

Norrell raised his hands to Strange’s face, tracing the shape of his features, in that fashion that always made Strange think he was trying to assure himself he was really there. “I scarcely gave any thought at all to such matters,” he said, almost to himself. “Then you came, Jonathan. After that, my dreams were full of you.”

His quiet sincerity moved Strange deeply. Cupping Norrell’s face in his hands, he stroked his cheeks lightly, smiling down at him. “Should you like to put some form to these dreams of yours, sir?”

Norrell’s eyes fluttered closed, and his breath left him in a sigh. “I should like it of all things.”

Strange laughed, a sound of mingled delight and relief, and closed in to kiss him again. He was aroused beyond measure: it coursed through him, aching, and he could not forego rocking his hips against Norrell’s. Norrell gasped, but held tight to his shoulders, and his hips gave a tentative shift of their own.

Greatly encouraged by this response, Strange eased Norrell’s coat from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor before sweeping him back into his embrace and kissing every inch of his face that he could reach. Norrell, too, was growing in eagerness, his hands moving over Strange’s back and shoulders, stroking patterns of his own invention through his waistcoat and shirt.

“Now,” said Strange between kisses, “what do we think? Did you take any particular part in your dreams, or was that, too, apt to change?”

Norrell was playing with the buttons on his waistcoat, which seemed to be a stratagem contrived for the purpose of avoiding his eye. “In my mind it was often you who took the upper hand. There was something wild about you, Jonathan, even in those early days. It was most vexing, of course, but sometimes I could not help but imagine-” He broke off with a shiver, biting his lip.

“Ah,” said Strange, comprehending at once. “Being overawed, ravished, that sort of thing.”

If Norrell blushed any more deeply, he was in grave peril of burning himself to a crisp. “Yes. Yes, quite.”

Strange grinned, feeling very wicked indeed. “The pupil mastering the master, in fact? Most interesting.”

This last remark inclined greatly toward understatement, for his mind was reeling with images of crowding Norrell against the nearest surface that offered, hauling him off his feet and having him roughly: a tumult of grasping hands and biting teeth and smothered cries. The notion sent him aflame with new heat, and he bit his lip against the groan that threatened to escape him.

But a sense of responsibility recalled him to himself. Norrell was eager, but he was still nervous, and Strange had no wish to overwhelm him.

“Well,” he said, kissing his brow, “we may work our way up to that, but I’m of the opinion that a little gentleness is what is needed now. Perhaps we might try a variation on the theme?”

Norrell looked a shade disappointed, but conceded the point. “You know more about these matters than I, sir. I am content to be guided by you.”

“Capital. Only promise me that should we become engaged in any thing you find at all disagreeable, you will tell me at once, and I will stop.”

“I will,” agreed Norrell, “but, oh, Jonathan…”

Whatever he had been about to say was lost as he pressed his mouth to Strange’s once more with an abandon that was quite unlike himself, and Strange was obliged to brace himself to prevent them both from toppling to the floor. From this he perceived that some more steady surface was required, and he cast about for something serviceable. The sopha was entirely too far away, and the table beside them seemed rather too delicate for the vigorous business he had in mind, which left the bookcase immediately behind them as the nearest suitable candidate. It was toward this bookcase, therefore, that he directed Norrell, edging him backward a step at a time. This was achieved more by instinct than by design, for they were both by now too interestingly occupied to attend to where they placed their feet, Strange employed in unknotting Norrell’s neckcloth, Norrell fumbling with Strange’s buttons, clumsy with impatience and inexperience.

“Allow me,” said Strange. Having unravelled the neckcloth, his hands were now free to guide Norrell’s. Norrell uttered a little noise of frustration, but at last their combined efforts succeeded in unbuttoning Strange’s waistcoat and bundling it out of the way. Thereupon, Norrell surprized him again by reaching at once for his shirt, pulling the tails free from his trousers, and slipping his hands beneath. At the first thrill of warm hands on his naked skin, Strange gave a gasp, imperfectly muffled in the curve of Norrell’s neck. Hitherto, their embraces had been tolerably chaste, but Norrell seemed to have forgotten his habitual bashfulness. His hands swept over Strange’s belly, moved out to smooth over his hips, then met again as they stroked up and down his back, growing more assured, more eager, with every caress. He even went so far as to pull Strange’s person more firmly against his own, plucking open Strange’s own neckcloth and laying soft, wet kisses against the skin that shewed through the gaping neck of his shirt, moving by slow degrees up his neck to the angle of his jaw.

“ _Oh_ ,” Strange sighed, “oh, good Lord, yes.”

“Does it feel as it should?” asked Norrell. A most disingenuous query, thought Strange, for just at that moment, Norrell’s intrepid fingers ventured up his chest and curiously circled one nipple, drawing a long, low moan from him.

“It is delightful. _You_ are delightful.”

Norrell glanced up at him, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself, and his caresses were growing in confidence. His hands kindled a fine fire beneath Strange’s skin wherever they touched, causing his whole being to ache with a most persistent urgency. He had been endeavouring to restrain himself for Norrell’s sake, but now he could not help himself, and pressed himself hard against him, seeking some momentary measure of relief. Norrell responded beautifully, gasping and arching into him, and Strange’s breath fled as he felt the hard bulge within the soft-worn wool of his breeches. 

Judging the moment right to proceed, he took Norrell firmly by the waist and hitched him up against the bookcase, until he was half-seated on the edge of the middle shelf, pinioned in place by Strange’s body. He blinked up at him.

“Jonathan?”

“Forgive me, sir, but I doubt either of us is any condition to make it to the bedroom.” A long, clinging, hungry kiss, then he gave a sly smile. “But this will answer just as well. Do not expect me to believe you never once imagined our coming together in the library.”

Norrell made no reply to this, but the deep flush that came into his face was most eloquent on his behalf. He hid it by burying his face in Strange’s neck again, pressing kisses to his throat. A wave of tenderness came over Strange, and he brought up a hand to stroke Norrell’s hair, rubbing soothing circles into his hip at the same time. Then, when he was confident that Norrell was ready, he drove his hips against him - the better to secure him against the bookcase, but it also had the effect of making them both moan loudly as they pressed against each other - and hastily slipped off Norrell’s waistcoat and pulled his shirt loose from his breeches.

“Oh!” cried Norrell, eyes flying open in sudden alarm. “The books! What if something should happen to them?”

It was a reasonable concern. Craning his head, Strange glanced at the volumes on the shelf against which he had anchored Norrell. “Shufflebean’s _Collected Works_. Hm. No great loss, at least.” 2

Norrell’s brows drew together, and in a tone of admonition he began, “Mr Strange-”

But Strange did not consider this the proper time for a lecture, so he stayed Norrell’s mouth with his own, and, in the same instant, moved his hand to the fall of his breeches. With deliberate intent, he let his fingertips linger over the place, describing the shape of him through the wool. Norrell clung to him, fingers pinching into his shoulders, his breath coming sharp and fast. Strange duly made short work of buttons and smallclothes, and slipped his hand inside to close about him. Norrell gave a yelp, and by sheer instinct, it seemed, thrust into the enclosing fist, his mouth clumsily glancing against Strange’s. Strange smiled into the kiss, but gave him no quarter, and instead began to stroke him, setting a slow, firm pace, until Norrell was moving his hips helplessly to meet him, making low moans with every thrust.

Inspired by a sudden spark of mischief, Strange bent over to breathe in his ear, “Oh, sir, this would never do in Hanover-square. Just think of all those gentlemen from the Admiralty waiting on you outside - what if someone should hear?”

Norrell gave a low cry - half-appalled, half-aroused - and kissed him desperately. Strange withdrew his hand (Norrell gave a whine of disappointment) to open his own trousers and pull aside the interposing folds of linen. This done, he took Norrell by the waist once more, and groaned deeply as he brought them together, so astonished by the hard, hot press between them that he feared he might come undone at once. But somehow he found the will to contain himself, and instead concentrated his attention upon Norrell, whose head had fallen back against the shelves and whose eyes were presently screwed shut, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“Gilbert? Do you wish me to go on?”

Norrell’s eyes, when he opened them, were dazed, and he was flushed and trembling all over, but the eagerness with which he ran his hands over Strange’s chest and shoulders, wriggling against him to improve the angle at which they were pressed together, were enough to dispel any lingering reservations Strange may have had, even before his breathless reply of, “Oh, Jonathan, _please_.”

The peculiar challenges of their circumstances were now represented to him as he considered how best to proceed. In all his previous plans for despoiling Mr Norrell of his virtue, he had taken it for granted that they would be abed, with all the necessary articles to hand. In their present situation, however, he found himself obliged to make do. Spitting into his palm, he guided it back down and wetted their hot flesh in one stroke. It was not exactly ideal, but it would suffice for their purposes, and so he repeated the process until his mouth was quite dry. Norrell had begun by watching this with a somewhat doubtful look, but he was soon writhing against him, gasping and grasping at him with imperious hands.

“ _Now_ , Jonathan. I cannot wait.”

Strange chuckled, but he quite shared Norrell’s sentiments. “Well, then, my dearest, if you will assist me just a moment…”

He let his hands drift to the backs of Norrell’s thighs, nudging gently, encouraging him to raise them, one after the other, to wrap around his waist. As he took Norrell’s full weight, his back protested, and he uttered a bitten-off grunt.

“Jonathan?”

“Just bear with me,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He pressed forward, letting the bookcase take most of Norrell’s weight. When he had them arranged to his satisfaction, he freed one hand to stroke Norrell’s cheek. “There. How is that?”

Norrell smiled, and Strange found himself marvelling, yet again, at how he could be so completely transformed by such a simple expression. “Most satisfactory.”

Strange laid a kiss against Norrell’s forehead, before pressing his own to the spot. Then, making certain that he had Norrell securely in hand, he thrust his hips.

They got off to a rather faltering start. It had been a long time since Cambridge, and he had somewhat forgotten the trick of this particular manoeuvre, while Norrell was uncertain and increasingly over-eager, thrusting wildly as if terrified he would lose the sensation if he dared let it alone for an instant. He clung to Strange’s arms, so tightly that Strange was certain he should be much bruised before they were done. But he applied himself to the task, moving steadily and continuously, doing his best to keep them together until, gradually, Norrell fell in with him. Before long they were moving as one, thrusting and sliding, the heat growing and shifting between them. Norrell’s vocabulary appeared to have been entirely reduced to, “oh, Jonathan, _Jonathan_ -” as he sobbed out his pleasure into Strange’s shoulder, his neck, his mouth, holding fast to him as if he were all that kept him from losing himself completely. Strange, for his part, found himself murmuring incessantly into Norrell’s mouth, garbled praises and endearments, like one of Ormskirk’s more incomprehensible incantations. Dimly, he was sensible that they had somewhat forgotten the general narrative of the intended fantasy, but he hoped Norrell’s enjoyment was such that he would be forgiving of this lapse.

In any case, they did not - it must be owned - last very long. Norrell was too overcome by the newness and intensity of the experience, and Strange had already wound himself up considerably at the beginning. They reached their conclusion at more or less the same moment, clutching blindly at each other, cries lost in one last deep, smothering kiss as the wave crested and broke over them both. For a long, long moment they simply remained as they were, pressed together from brow to flank, panting for breath against each other’s mouths.

Presently, Mr Norrell lowered his legs from around Strange’s waist and set his feet once more upon firm ground. Once free, Strange moved: too soon, it transpired, for his legs buckled beneath him and it was only Norrell’s hands at his shoulders that prevented him from losing his balance altogether.

“Jonathan?” said Mr Norrell, looking at him in some alarm.

Recovering himself, Strange laughed: tired, happy. “I am quite all right, sir, thank you.” And, peering closely, “Yourself?”

Norrell’s face was pink, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes fever-bright and rapidly blinking, but he was smiling. “That was… that was…” He could say no more.

Strange laughed and pulled him close. “I am quite of your mind.”

There were certain practical matters to be attended to, for he was certain that once Norrell had recovered from his daze, the more indecorous results of their coupling would discompose him; so he cleaned them both with his pocket handkerchief (Shufflebean had survived the ordeal intact) and put their clothes in order. Once he had restored them both to a condition of tolerable - if somewhat rumpled - respectability, he guided Norrell across the library to the sopha, and drew him down with him. Norrell almost collapsed upon him, tucking himself into Strange’s side. His weight settled, his breathing grew deep and even, and he seemed to doze off with his head upon Strange’s shoulder. Strange smiled, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his back beneath his hand, and for a time he was quite content to sit there, stroking Norrell’s back and shoulders, feeling fond and protective, and not a little pleased with himself. He chuckled.

Norrell stirred. “What is it?”

“I was merely considering - to return to our previous conversation, before we drifted so dramatically away from the point - whether it was like this for Pale and Pevensey. Something that grew between them later, after her education was complete.”

“ _His_ education,” said Norrell obstinately, but reached for his hand, and turned his head to look up at him with that singular expression he so often wore, the one that made Strange feel as if he were something rare and precious. How had he ever missed that look? He was beginning to feel that he must have spent all those years in London wandering around in a blind daze, insensible to all that was important around him. Above all, he could not help but reflect that he must have led both Norrell and Bell a sad dance of it. The thought that the two people he loved the most should have suffered so much on his account was a sobering one, and left him feeling far less complacent than he had been just a minute before.

“I wish I had known,” he said softly.

Mr Norrell shrugged. “I do not think it would have changed any thing.”

Strange played with the curls at his nape. “Perhaps not. But perhaps I would have dealt more gently with you, at least. That is a deuced hard thing to bear all alone for such a time. Did no one know?”

Norrell shook his head. “No. That is - I believe Childermass may have guessed, but he never said any thing about it.”

“No,” Strange agreed. If Childermass had known any thing (and certainly, there was very little that was hidden from Childermass) he would have kept his own counsel.3 He could at least be certain that Lascelles and Drawlight had not known. If they had, they would certainly have let Mr Norrell know it, for their own base purposes. That set his thoughts upon an unwelcome diversion, imagining the scandal - and worse - that must surely have erupted had it become generally known that the First Magician of the Age had conceived an _unnatural passion_ for the Second. His arms closed more tightly around Norrell.

As if he sensed something of his disquiet, Norrell said, “It is all behind us now, Jonathan.”

“Yes, yes,” said Strange with a sigh. Recovering his good humour, he said, “And we accord very well together here. Especially well now, I should think.” He raised an arch eyebrow.

Norrell looked shy at that, but he smiled. “Yes, indeed. But - and I do not mean to complain-” this in that tone which invariably meant he did - “I should like the use of a bed next time. I am glad nothing untoward happened to the books, but I do not think the library is at all the proper place for such… behaviour.”

At this, Strange started to laugh, and he went on laughing even after he fell off the sopha.

**Author's Note:**

> 1The origin of this conflict remains obscure, and the medieval ballad tradition of Northern England contains several references which suggest it had been forgotten even by the belligerents by the time John Uskglass was abducted to Faerie as a child. (Claims that it had been ongoing for “four thousand years” are, of course, to be treated as purely proverbial.) From later nineteenth century sources, it appears the conflict was finally resolved, to the satisfaction of all parties, through the peaceful arbitration of the king of Hope-restored (formerly Lost-hope), c. 1860. (see ‘Humans and the political landscape of Faerie’ by Amanda Honeyfoot-Smythe, _Proceedings of the Society of York Magicians_ , August 1998)
> 
> 2Lemuel Shufflebean (c.1705 - 1782) was a theoretical magician who wrote twenty-six disparate volumes on magical theory and history, particularly that pertaining to his native Wiltshire. He would doubtless have remained largely obscure, if not for the fact that his _Treatise on the Mystical Properties of the Common Brick_ has, since his death, acquired the unenviable reputation of being the most unintentionally comical work of magical theory ever written, and it has become the custom of the more waggish members of certain magical societies to enliven a gathering by reading it aloud to the accompaniment of satirical commentary.
> 
> 3John Childermass’ own proclivities have proved a subject of enduring fascination to magio-historians, and there have been many attempts to link him to various prominent contemporaries, including Gilbert Norrell and John Segundus. Some commentators have even suggested a liaison with Mr Henry Lascelles, editor of the _Friends of English Magic_ periodical. This last group might be generously regarded as _eccentrics_.


End file.
